


Apostates Anonymous

by Ray_Murata



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Drug Abuse, Fenhawke Week, M/M, Vietnam War, alternative universe, drug traffic, fenhawke week in any universe, junky inspired, mages are dealers and peddlers and croakers, templars are narcs, william burroughs inspired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-16 11:56:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5827675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garrett Hawke runs a pharmacy in Kirkwall district very well known for filling in opiate prescriptions, no questions asked.<br/>When his brother becomes NARC, he's pissed, but it's the white-haired, tattoed guy he promised he'd sponsor in AA that makes things come crashing down. What on Earth would have him involved with Colombian Cartel?</p><p>Late 1970's AU in which Fenris is an alcoholic, mages are drug enablers and templars are narcs. The Kirkwall gang fits right in. It's bound to get absurd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morphine

**Author's Note:**

> So... I only have 2 chapters written so far and I wouldn't normally post something so undone (it has not been beta-read and it's probably crawling with mistakes! D:) but it's Fenhawke Week and I said to myself "sod it". 
> 
> If anyone out there would be willing to beta read for me, I'd appreciate that so much! <3 Let me know.
> 
> To those of you who do not enjoy anything pro-drugs, or to whom alcoholism/drug abuse is a trigger, please stay clear of my stupid fic. It's somewhat a crack fic and not meant to offend anyone, so once again I will say this: Garrett/Anders/Merrill/Bethany/Danarius/Fiona/Orsino and every other mage in the game is hereby portrayed as a drug enabler of sorts - from weed to heroin and anything in between.  
> There are many nuances to addiction and abuse (such as depression and environment) and I do not see drug trafficking/use as a black/white thing... Hopefully you don't either if you're in for this.
> 
> Notes on the first chapter: I love Carver Hawke. <3

Carver had both hands inside the pockets of his leather jacket and glared intently at his older brother as the shorter man lit up a cigarette. It was early evening and they were standing in front of the shabby and badly-patched walls of the only Christian church in the poorest area of their jagged neighborhood. Neither of them lived around those corners anymore and the means through which they had moved out piled up on top of the tall stack of reasons why the two Hawkes couldn’t get along. 

Faint light was coming from the chapel, as well as vague murmuring that informed them that they weren’t the first ones to arrive. They were early, and not on Garrett’s account. Carver was the one that worried too much, that was never late, that cared more than he should about tradition such as punctuality and appearances and the likes of it. Carver was the one who’d driven past his brother’s house far too early in the evening, a fact Garrett was actually willing to overlook. The grey sedan, however, he could not ignore. 

That his brother had had the nerve...

“Shitty fucking job you’re doing, if you think you’re undercover with that,” Garrett pointed his chin on the car’s direction as he inhaling deep on his cigarette. He shook his head, shifted his weight on his feet, looked away as he puffed out smoke. “Fucking screams five-o, that.”

“Not at work now, case you ain’t noticed,” the other man replied, rolling his eyes. He cheked his wristwatch.

There were another ten minutes to go and while Garrett could be a patient man if needed be, he just couldn’t picture sitting through ten whole insufferable minutes with Carver without jumping on his neck for taking the job. “Narc, Carver? Narc?” 

“The pay is good. I’ll be able to help mom a lot more now,” the cop explained tiredly. It was as if he’d been expecting that question again, as if he’d been practicing the answer. “Why can’t you ever be happy for what I achieve?”

“On your brother’s expense, that it?” Given Garrett’s line of work, Carver’s new job was almost an open declaration of war. “Why not work with Aveline, then, if being a cop is that important?”

“You well know Aveline wouldn’t have me on District!” Carver protested, but it did not stop his brother’s complaints.

“Feels like you’re doing this on purpose, just to get to me. Might as well say it to my face.” 

“Heavens, not everything that happens in this family is about you!” Carver barked. His brows were knitted tightly, his expression full of rage, of bewilderment. “You know what, Garrett? You think you know what’s best for mom, but you’re wrong. What you do... It’s not good for our family, and you shouldn’t take Beth down that path with you. It isn’t right. It wasn’t right when dad did it, it still ain’t. What’s mom gonna say if you end up behind bars?”

“What’s mom gonna say if _you_ put me there?” The older brother barked back, throwing the cigarette butt to the floor, stepping on it and watching as a sickening thin lady walked past them headed into the church. 

Garrett owned a drugstore, like his father had done before him. He wasn’t a pharmacist, which is why he hired Fiona to front. What he actually knew of the pharmacy trade, though, Malcolm had taught him. More than that, the old man had also taught him how to survive the shitty American market in the middle of financial crisis: Filling in prescriptions other drugstores wouldn’t. Morphine, codeine, methadone, you name it. At first Malcolm was just helping out vets looking to buy more than their prescriptions allowed. Then came the junkies and in time a regular clientele had been created. It was all very discrete and controlled and Garrett failed to see how that little business of theirs could ever be the seven-headed monster the government made it out to be. He’d met people over the years and he’d just grown more certain that the War or Drugs would never be a War in the first place if “drugs” were legal. 

It was the 1920’s prohibition law all over again - Would they ever learn? There’d be no war to wage if the government itself didn’t plow the soil for money-and-blood thirsty drug lords to harvest their share. The gangs were the ones selling death in bottles and they were also the ones dropping bodies on the corners for territory and market share. Somehow Garrett also reckoned they were likely the ones sponsoring the political parties that kept the whole thing going. Hawke’s business wasn’t like that. He did nothing but provide small quantities of safe junk, which his customers would likely get elsewhere anyway if he didn’t sell. He pulled yet another cigarette from the pack.

“I’m not giving you in. Fuck’s sake, I’m not even working blasted Kirkwall!” Carver spat back in annoyance. “And you’re chainsmoking.” 

“No shit,” was his brother’s reply. “Your observation skills are flawless, little brother.” His irony so entirely expected Carver barely blinked. “Makes me wonder... How did you end up with that ‘promotion’ in the first place? You asked for it?”

“If you must know, no. I didn’t,” the younger Hawke answered. His tone a plea for trust. “My superiors thought I had what it took. Determination, guts, experience from the war… An inside,” Carver would have explained further if he hadn’t been interrupted:

“An inside?” Garrett snorted sarcastically in between puffs of smoke. “That their word for a habit?” He ran a hand through his pitch black hair and turned to look at his brother’s deep blue eyes. Eyes that had been very red and far too gone for a very long time following Carver’s return from Vietnam. He knew the boy hadn’t touched junk for several months now, but his anger gnawed at him, chewing up any compassion that would have otherwise stopped him from poisonously throwing Carver’s addiction on his face. By the time he noticed what he’d said, it would be too late. “Convenient for them, isn’t it? Get an undercover with a habit and it’s half the job done.”

“I’m clean,” was the other man’s protest. “Been clean for- You know what? Sod it. I’m going in before I just give up helping Anso’s friend altogether.” He said and turned around. Garrett watched his back disappear into the church, fogged by the smoke that he continued to puff out.

Carver had given up the fight. He did that when it hurt, as Garrett very well knew, but it still took him a moment to rewind and realize just how spiteful his words had been. Not everyone chose their addiction. Carver hadn’t chosen his. Like so many other vets, he’d been hooked into morphine while waiting for his leave in Vietnam, and it’d taken him a long time upon return to actually start treating himself, but he’d been strong enough to do so.

He had been clean for exactly eleven months and two weeks now. Garrett knew it because he did care, despite everything. He was, however, genuinely worried that the police could be using his brother. There were stories about undercovers... Shooting up was just another task in a day’s work, as far as he could tell. What if they had him using junk from doubtful sources? What if he OD’ed on badly-cut stuff? What if these cartels caught up on his disguise? What if they lost Carver, too? Hadn’t they suffered enough from burying Malcolm? Wasn’t fighting in Vietnam risk enough for a single young man to take?

No matter how angry Carver made him feel, Garrett dreaded knowing his brother was putting his life at risk, taking on such a high-stake job. And it was worse that he felt guilty about it. Even if the other Hawke denied it, he still had a gut feeling that Carver had taken on that job to spite him, to better him at his own game, to one-up him somehow. As if he still needed to prove himself any further...

“Prick,” Hawke mumbled under his breath, finishing up the cigarette just as he caught sight of Varric’s car parking on the other side of the street. His lips curved into a smile. “So you decided to come?” He asked as the short man exited the vehicle. The passenger door opened on the other side and Bethany smiled at him.

“Sunshine insisted,” Varric said, walking up to him. “I think she’s smitten on Choir boy.”

Hawke coughed and patted his own chest, raising a brow at his sister. He did not disagree with her one bit, but he wasn’t about to admit that either. “Sebastian’s ordained, Beth!”

“I know,” the woman shrugged, “but he’s still pretty to look at.”

“This is Isabela’s influence, isn’t it?” he rolled his eyes, quickly glancing at a middle-aged man who walked past them and into the church. Bethany and Varric were both chuckling. “You two realize this is a serious AA meeting, right? For Alcoholics? Who’d rather keep their anonymity?”

“Says my sober brother,” Bethany retorted.

“Don’t worry, Hawke. I’m just here for the stories,” he smirked. “Besides, Sebastian invited me himself. Come on, let’s go in.”

“So… Who’s this guy you’re sponsoring anyway?” the woman asked as they made their way up the stairs.

“Anso only gave me a name to go by,” Garrett said. “Some fella called Fenris.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenris coming up next ;)


	2. Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris does need help - Just not with what Anso made it out to be.

Fenris didn’t talk much, which was a pity because his was the most marvelous voice Garrett had ever heard, or so he thought as he watched the man with the corner of his eyes throughout the meeting. He couldn’t avert his gaze even if he had wished to. The man was like no one else he’d ever met. He had golden brown skin that was covered in tattoos for as far as reached the eyes - Starting with two white streaks on his chin, then down his neck and all over his arms and hands, making it really hard for Garrett’s imagination not to wander, a curious mechanism in the back of his head trying to guess what other parts of the man’s lean body were similarly white lined. Then there was the gray, no, white hair. Fenris couldn’t be older than thirty five, he thought to himself as he oogled the man’s smooth skin and its wrinkles, or lack thereof. He had dark circles under beautiful, bright green eyes, but so did everyone else in the room. Hawke’s mind was taking bets against itself: Thirty, tops, and the hair is dyed, he guessed first, but it didn’t look dyed, so his mind challenged itself: Forty, and he’s been sleeping in a bathtub full of formaldehyde. He smirked to no one in particular, coming back to his senses only to notice Fenris’s entrapping eyes watching his honey colored ones watching back.

“So there’s this young boy Pryce, right?” A skinny brown-haired woman was saying. “He’s been helping me out these past days getting the fabric from the store and I give him some change for every batch he brings. So on Friday I get a good pay for the dress I’ve sewn and I look at it, and I just know I’m doing to drink every last cent.” She looked at her hands as though she could see the money there still. She shut her eyelids for a while and closed her fist.

“And what did you do then, Athenril?” Sebastian asked calmly. Garrett turned his head to look at him - His shiny blue eyes waiting patiently for the woman to finish her story. The Hawkes had known the priest and the work he did for the community for quite a while. He’d helped Carver in NA and they’d become friends since. Whenever Sebastian couldn’t help someone to stay clean from opiates, he’d send them Garrett’s way. At least then he’d know the person was getting decent junk. The priest knew what a slow death withdrawal could be because he’d been there himself. Varric constantly said he was yet to write a story about Sebastian. Coming from a rich family out of town, he’d turned his life upside down and left all his addictions behind for priesthood. Particularly hard to believe, but impressive nonetheless. 

The woman shook her head. “I didn’t think I could resist... So I gave Pryce the money. Told him to keep it from me until the start of the week. When it’s Monday I’m busy, I’m stronger.”

“It’s Thursday now,” the priest remarked, expecting that the woman would still have more to share.

“I know… I couldn’t… I couldn’t find Pryce. The little shithead left with my pay.” Her eyes were tearing up and Garrett wasn’t sure if it was the strain from being sober or the financial loss. Perhaps a bit of everything had her cracking down in tiny sobs. “I needed it to pay my bills.”

“Are you certain he stole it?” Sebastian gave most people the benefit of the doubt. Athenril cries became harder as she nodded. People around the circle all gave her pitying looks, but no one had the spare coin to refill what had been lost. Garrett felt a sudden urge to go after Pryce to make him give back what was lost, but something about Fenris’ stern look stilled his impulses. The dark skinned man was watching the sobbing woman with unimpressed and unsympathetic green eyes.

“It was God that led you to giving him the money, Athenril, so you’d stay sober. It was a lesson. Next time, you’ll be strong enough to resist on your own,” Sebastian offered, but it didn’t feel like a just bargain to Garrett, nor did he think Athenril had the willpower and the commitment yet. Some people clung to their addiction far beyond their body’s chemical need for whatever substance they were slaves of. Still, the priest’s words comforted the woman. “Let’s see if Pryce will return… If not, the Church will find a way to help you.”

“I can try to find him. I’ve seen him around,” Garrett offered before he could stop himself. Carver frowned at him - Why did he always meddle where he was not invited? The woman lifted her head to look at him, watery eyes full of hope and thankfulness. “I can’t promise anything,” he added afterwards with an apologetic smile.

The meeting went on mostly uneventful. Other people shared stories of their worst drunken ‘lows’, or of the difficulties and rewards of being sober. Carver shared, too, upon Sebastian’s request. As for Fenris, he kept to himself, never saying a word besides the introduction at the start of the session. When an hour had gone by, people stood up, said their thanks and left. The priest then gestured with his hand for the Hawke brothers and Fenris to stay. Bethany and Varric agreed to wait outside.

“Gosh, I don’t know about you, Sunshine, but after all this talk about booze, I sure as hell need a drink,” the short man joked on his way out. Good thing Sebastian didn’t hear him.

“Thank you for offering to help Athenril, Hawke,” the priest offered as he approached Garrett. “I understand Anso told you our friend here needs a sponsor?” Quietly, Fenris grunted at the word _friend_.

“Carver’s been busy,” Garrett explained, trying hard not to show his resentment towards his brother in front of Sebastian. His job was supposed to remain a secret, after all. The more people in Kirkwall knew about it, the higher the risk became. “So I can sponsor him instead. I helped Carver through NA. I know what it entails,” as he spoke, his gaze shifted from the priest to the slender man he was supposed to help. For some reason, Fenris didn’t strike him as someone who accepted help easily. “Name’s Hawke,” he offered, stretching out a hand in the air only for it to be frowned upon. 

“Name’s Fenris,” the man parrotted, his arms crossed over his chest and not moving from there to shake Hawke’s hand. 

“Right,” Garrett said awkwardly, retracting his hand and running it through his hair in embarrassment. Carver’s amused smile showed at least someone was enjoying the tension that hovered in the air. “I suppose inviting you for a chat over drinks is out of the question, then,” he joked, chuckling slightly, feeling inspired by Varric’s lack of tact. For a single moment he thought he saw the corner of Fenris’ lips twitch upwards, but it might as well have been wishful thinking.

“Hawke,” Sebastian warned, shaking his head. “The man needs a serious sponsor.”

“Which I will be. Ever so serious, that’s me,” he promised his clerical friend, then turned to the newly acquainted man again. “No drinks, I get it. So... In that case… What kind of person are you? The Coca-cola or the orange juice type?”

“Water,” Fenris replied curtly. Carver snorted at his brother.

“A water person, then. Fine. Food? We can talk over food, right?”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Sebastian informed, patting both Garrett and Fenris on the shoulder before turning around and walking further inside the chapel. The brown-skinned man winced at the touch, but said nothing at all. Hawke noticed simply because he was staring. He’d been staring for the biggest part of the past hour, not entirely unaware of the fact Fenris did not seem to enjoy being looked at. 

For his part, whenever their eyes met, Fenris quickly averted his gaze. While Hawke had his sight set on him, the tattooed man watched Sebastian’s back disappear into the back of the church. He then turned to the two brothers. “So, you were saying, food?”

“Yes, food, let’s get out of this depressing place,” the older Hawke agreed quickly, then turned to the crucified Jesus on the wall and raised a hand in the air apologetically. “No offense there.” They were silent for the remaining steps that led them out the Church, following Carver to the end of the block and turning left on the direction of the grey Sedan. Bethany and Varric were leaning against the car. “Do you like stew? I know this nice bar, they serve a mean stew and the price is, well, reasonable, if only you can handle the smell... Some patrons, they have.”

“Hawke, is it?” Fenris interrupted, stopping on his track. The Hawke brothers both stopped and turned to look at the tattooed man, still a few steps away from the car. “I do require assistance at this moment, but it is not a sponsor I need. Anso mentioned you were in Vietnam,” he said in a rather solemn voice. Quite the voice, Garrett kept thinking, even as he frowned at the unexpected twist. Varric and Bethany’s indistinct chatter ceased.

“Not him. I was,” Carver informed quickly, a little too eager, holding the car keys in his hand.

“Carver was,” he agreed, brows still knitted. “Why?”

Fenris’ gaze rested upon Carver for a few seconds before turning back to Garrett. “Can you fire a gun?”

“I - Well, yes,” Garrett offered reluctantly. He’d grown up in a farm in the countryside so he’d known how to fire a shotgun since he was around ten. Plus, given his line of business, he had indulged himself with a Colt Python he didn’t plan on using unless he really needed to. That didn’t make the question any less unexpected. “Why?”

“It’s… Complicated.”

“Now this is getting interesting,” Varric mentioned from afar, getting his back off of the car and taking a step closer to the other men. He quietly gestured for Bethany to stay where she was.

“Oh, I enjoy complicated,” Hawke retorted sarcastically. “What I don’t enjoy is _shady_. Or bloody.”

Fenris averted his gaze again. “There’s some mail I am waiting for. I am to get it at a rented postal box, but I am expected. I require an inconspicuous messenger to get it for me.”

“You are expected? By whom?” Carver asked.

“Why the hell would I need a gun to get someone’s mail?” Garrett nearly yelled.

Fenris sighed heavily. “I am expected by _sicarios_ from a Colombian cartel”

Garrett and Varric exchanged worried glances. “I think he means _hitmen_ ,” the dwarf said.

“What the-? Why are you expected by-? Do you owe them?” The younger brother questioned. 

“Colombian hitmen? Are you kidding me? You’d have us killed in your place?” Garrett piled up the questions.

“Unlikely. They do not seek to kill me.” Fenris said.

“So you do owe them.” Bethany remarked, having ignored Varric’s suggestion and walked up to the rest of them. “That's why you're wanted alive rather than dead?” 

Garrett took another drag of his cigarette, the gears in his brain fuming with a rapid turning. The lights from the apartment round the block turned on and an old woman peeped her head from the window. He wondered if she could hear them. 

“Not exactly,” Fenris’ gaze traveled from the woman’s eyes to her older brother’s. Garrett got a packet of cigarettes from his jeans’ pocket and pulled a stick out with his lips. With a free hand he fumbled his pockets for the lighter. “A Colombian drug trafficker named Danarius seeks to reclaim one of his best sicarios, namely myself. I am, however, unwilling to return to his employment, yet he will not allow it.”

The three Hawkes exchanged worried and suspicious looks, discussing in fraternal silence whether or not to believe the story the stranger was feeding them. “That seems like a lot of effort for one hitman,” especially one that held no loyalty for his boss any longer, or so it felt to Hawke. “Sounds like killing you would be a lot easier.”

“It would, but it would not send a message,” Fenris explained. “Danarius would first force me back to his employment or strip the flesh off my bones and leave my carcass hanging for others to see, than put a merciful bullet through my chest and risk his other men being caught this side of the pond.”

“Nothing to worry about, then,” Varric’s chuckle echoed. “He sounds just like the sort of guy we’d love to meet.”

“In Colombia, Danarius is El Patrón. His influence has branches in the police and politics alike and his men are feared wherever they go. Here, they’re but thugs that sweat like any other with fear of American cops coming for them.” Fenris didn’t look like someone who was lying. “In any case, there's a three story building at the same block. I will have your back from the roof.”

“From the roof?” Varric frowned, giving Fenris a sideways glance.

“Wait a minute there, who said we agreed to this?” Garrett’s brows went up along with the smoke that exhaled from his mouth as he spoke. The woman in the nearby building still watched from the building, likely expecting something exciting to happen. An alleyway fight would be the highlight of her day, no doubt.

“What are you still doing here if you aren’t even considering?” Fenris retorted, curt and dry.

“Me? I was giving you the benefit of the doubt,” words fled from Hawke’s mouth. “That, and you’re _really, really_ easy on the eye.” 

Fenris nearly choked himself on a genuine, albeit nervous chuckle. His face soon regained the stern expression as he coughed up the laugh. Bethany smirked, Carver rolled his eyes and Varric whispered an audible “smooth”.

“Danarius’ men are surveilling the mailbox night and day. I intend to go there in the late afternoon tomorrow, with or without assistance. Here is where you will find me,” Fenris pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and took a step forward to place it in Garrett’s hand. “If you help me, I will find a way to repay you, I swear.” He nodded a silent thank you and walked away.

“And here I thought this sponsoring business would be boring,” Varric remarked to none of them in particular.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have comments - mistakes that need correcting, suggestions, I don't know, I'd love to hear it.  
> I have many ideas but i'm not sure I'm gonna keep this up, lol.


	3. Rum and Coke

After much deliberation, Hawke decided to do something about Fenris’ request, and doing something about it, in this case, such as in many others, meant getting Aveline unwillingly involved in it. 

“Are you a hundred percent sure we’re dealing with Colombian cartel here, Hawke? Because if it is, we should get DEA involved before we regret it. I could venture talking to agent Stannard,” The police officer said as they exited Hawke’s car and made their way to Smetty’s Fish and Chips around the corner. “She’s head of NARC,” Isabela and Carver tailed behind them.

“It really would be best to let-” Carver started, getting interrupted by his older brother.

“Can we please focus on an action plan with minimum casualties here?” the man pleaded as he turned his head left and right, searching for Fenris. On a wall to the left of the entrance a poster in grey background and white letters read:

FATE IS LIKE A STRANGE, UNPOPULAR RESTAURANT FILLED WITH ODD LITTLE WAITERS WHO BRING YOU THINGS YOU NEVER ASKED FOR AND DON’T ALWAYS LIKE.

“I wouldn’t want this coming back to bite me in the ass, you know?” He told Aveline.

“It’s going to bite _me_ in the ass if it escalates, Hawke. Where is this informant of yours, anyway?”

“I take it I am the informant?” Fenris deep voice resonated from behind Hawke. The taller man nearly jumped at the sound of it, turning around and facing the handsome man. Aveline’s green eyes studied him from head to feet, frowning every step of the way - Hawke didn’t know whether she was puzzled by his white head, intrigued by his tattoos or simply grossed out by his choice of footwear. Flip flops. Fenris wriggled his toes defiantly. Isabela too took her time inspecting him, but, unlike the police officer, she seemed to like what she saw.

“Fenris, hey,” Garrett offered with an awkward smile. “Think we can talk before I head to certain death by Colombian cartel sicarios?” He gestured to the nearest table and pulled a chair for the tattooed man before sitting down next to him. His three friends followed suit. “This is my friend, Aveline, she’s a police officer in Kirkwall District.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “That’s not the real name of the district, Hawke,” she corrected him. 

“Isn’t it?” Isabela asked playfully. “Not like I’ve heard another.” She was teasing the other woman, but to a great deal of people, Kirkwall might as well have been their district’s actual name. Varric said the nickname dated back to the tall walls of an old abandoned real estate that was graffitied with the most amazing obscenities. Someone thought it was a nice idea to name it the ‘kink wall’, but the person’s handwriting didn’t help interpretation and it ended up being called the kirkwall instead. The infamous wall didn’t even exist anymore, but during its lifetime it had become a landmark in the neighborhood and, eventually, the whole district was address by that name. That was even before the Hawkes had moved in. Varric did enjoy telling tall tales, though.

“I’m Isabela, by the way,” she told Fenris once she realized it hadn’t occurred to Hawke to introduce her. The man nodded back. “I enjoy a man with tattoos like that,” she added, then shifted position on her seat, making her large breasts easier to contemplate, especially given the unorthodox cleavage. Fenris’ eyes did wander: Briefly, almost politely, as though invited to look. It was Carver who found himself awkwardly staring.

Aveline drew a heavy, disapproving breath and ran a hand over her face. “Really, Isabela?”

The dark skinned woman chuckled freely. “Not all of us enjoy the cringy rustiness, big girl.”

“Every single time,” the police officer muttered under her breath, shaking her head at the other woman. “Is there ever going to be a person we meet you don’t flirt with?”

“Not if they fit my standards, no,” she crossed a leg over the other. The short skirt made her thighs very visible and Carver tried his best not to look. He failed.

“Standards?” Aveline snorted. “Well, I guess that does answer my question. Whore.” Isabela grinned and winked at her.

“Well,” Hawke intervened timely. “Fenris. As I was saying, Aveline is here to help me. Us. With your mail thing.”

Fenris shifted uncomfortably on his chair. His eyes shifted quietly between the four of them before resting on Hawke’s hands over the table. “I do not mean to sound ungrateful, but,” he stopped, coughed into a closed fist and lifted his head to meet the man’s gaze. “A cop? What exactly is your angle here?”

“Not getting killed, I guess?” Garrett grinned. 

“Fenris, right?” Aveline gave him a stern look. She rested her elbows on the table and bent forward. Next to her Hawke was pulling a cigarette from the pack. “Are we truly dealing with Colombian cartel here?” Fenris nodded. “If Hawke were to be accompanied by a police officer when getting your mail, would that make this whole deal any safer?”

“No,” Fenris answer was categorical. He turned his head and rested his gaze on the daily menu on the wall behind the counter. Above it hung a poster with a supposedly deep quote. It sounded comical in such an unrefined place:

LIFE IS WHAT HAPPENS TO YOU WHILE YOU’RE BUSY MAKING OTHER PLANS.

“It would anger Danarius,” he said at last. “Could make things worse.”

“This is bullshit,” Carver sighed, resting his back on the chair. “You tell us American police is what would keep them from opening fire on my brother, but having an actual officer with him is bad? What are you playing at?”

Carver’s accusation brought Fenris’ brows together. His expression was dangerous, like a wild wolf eying a defenseless prey, but he said nothing. A tall red haired man with an apron laced around his waist approached them at the same time, orderbook in his hands. “Welcome to the shop, mates,” he said with a smile. “Name’s Solivitus. Can I get you anything?”

“Tap water,” Hawke asked.

Isabela looked up. “You have rum, _mate_?” she parroted. Solivitus nodded. “A dose, then,”

“Coming right up,” the man agreed, leaving them alone. 

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before any of them spoke up again, and that one person was Fenris. “You want them,” he accused, turning his head back to meet Aveline’s gaze. “And you can’t flag or stop a group of Colombian men just because.” He pulled out a hip flask from the pocket of his leather jacket. “I’m not one to hide, but I can’t be your informant.” He brought the flask up and took a long swig, clearly not minding Hawke’s outraged stare.

“Fenris?” Garrett’s brows were knitted tight. Ashes from the cigarette fell on table instead of the ashtray. “Is that alcohol? I’m right here. I’m your sponsor. What of your decision?” 

The tattooed Adam’s apple gulped down the drink. “I will offer this,” he said when he was done. He neatly returned the flask to his pocket and pulled a piece of paper from it instead. He placed it on the table and then dragged it over to Aveline’s side with two lean, white-lined fingers. He did not remove them from atop the paper as he spoke. “Let them come. We watch. If they come hard on Hawke, we intervene. If they don’t, then chances are they’ll tail Hawke’s car afterwards.” Carver and his brother both frowned at the exact same time. Fenris did not stop. “From what I gather, they’re using two different cars, which should be legitimate, probably registered on some American mule’s name, you do the research. This might be speculation, but they probably don’t bother paying yearly registration fees or personal property taxes. And if Hawke speeds, they probably will too… And if there happens to be a patrol car along the road, then…” He trailed off. Aveline’s lips turned upwards a bit. “If you can work with that to search the car, you’ll get unregistered guns. Cocaine, if you’re lucky. I doubt it’ll get you anywhere, though. They’ll most likely get deported back to Colombia and walk scot-free after a couple of days of bureaucracy.”

“Not if they really have illegal guns or drugs on them,” Aveline reassured.

“Perhaps the cops back home should learn something from your DEA,” he shrugged. “So long as Hawke walks in and out of the post office without interference,” he finished.

“Sounds like a deal to me,” Aveline agreed. Fenris pulled his hand away and let the woman check the car plate numbers he’d written down. Solivitus came back with Isabela’s drink and Hawke’s water. They both drank quietly while the police officer pulled up her walkie talkie and got Donnic on the line. “The messes you drag me into, Hawke,” she said, shaking her head and then standing up. “I’ll give these to Donnic, then.”

“Oh, this is very exciting!” Isabela mentioned as she finished her rum. “What’s it like being cartel muscle?”

“So we’re going forward with this dumb plan?” Carver asked, incredulous.

“You just wait outside, Carver,” Hawke instructed his brother, irritation clear in his voice. He then turned to look at Isabela. “Isabela can speak Spanish and she knows a thing or two about self defense, which is why she’s here. Plus, I figure they might go easier on us if there’s a woman.”

“I’d rather my men went hard on me, but one makes exceptions for friends,” she winked at her friend. Hawke was so used to Isabela’s flirting he usually chose to ignore it. He’d been there, done that. It’d been fun, and enjoyable, but he much preferred men. “Excuse me, I’ve got to use the _loo_ ,” she said, standing up. 

“What exactly are you expecting?” He asked, both out of curiosity and in order to make conversation. Anything to get Fenris to talk some more. “Is it a large package?” 

The tattooed man eyed him quietly for a short moment before he answered in an honest sigh and discrete shaking of head: “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”Carver gasped. “What the fuck?”

“Shut it, you!” Garrett threatened.

“Perhaps just a letter?” Fenris guessed, his beautiful green eyes looking up longingly. “I expect little else.” 

Hawke was all too aware of the pound in his chest upon watching that expectant and somewhat hurt expression on the other man’s face. “Well, I’m very fond of surprises,” he joked, then proceeded to reassure Fenris: “We’ll find out soon enough, I guess.” 

“I appreciate you doing this, Hawke,” Fenris offered. Hawke found himself melting at the sound of his voice. Even if reluctantly, he was well aware his crotch was having far more say in him agreeing to that absurd meddling than his brain. His brain was screaming for him to just get out, but he figured he couldn’t hear it under the echoing of Fenris’ melodious voice in his head. God forbid, he was feeling much more than he should be feeling for someone he’d barely met and who’d so far proven to be anything but safe or reliable. 

“So we get in, get your mail, get out,” he reviewed, trying to sound confident and in charge of the plan. “If anyone approaches us looking for you, we play dumb. Then we get in the car and Carver and Aveline watch out for where your sicarios maybe following us. Right?”

“Right.”

“And as soon as this is done, you’re re-examining your decision. And I’ll confiscate all your flasks,” he threatened playfully, earning himself a magnificent smile from the corner of the man’s mouth. Fenris nodded quietly. “Then I guess I’m ready.” He then looked around, searching for Isabela.

“I don’t think she’s returning to the restaurant,” Fenris mentioned. Hawke glanced at the chair where the woman was sitting only to notice that, indeed, her purse was missing. 

“This again, Isabela?” He rolled his eyes, sighing. “You’d think I learn my lesson.” Grunting, Garrett pulled up a couple of bills from his wallet and threw them over the table. “Let’s make this quick, then,” he suggested, standing up to leave. As Carver opened the door for the three man to exit Smetty’s Fish and Chips, Hawke had his eyes fixed on the savory sight of Fenris’ butt in tight black jeans ahead of him. Fenris was the only one to glance up at the poster nailed to the exit door. It read:

‘AND EVERYTHING WENT EXACTLY AS DICTATED THE PLAN’ SAID NO ONE, EVER.


End file.
